The Terminal Velocity of Love
In this room,
With these whispered hearts;
You hear prayers for silence.
In this room,
With flower pots bearing white lilacs;
You hear a dream come true.
These are our hearts,
A romantic marathon at 32 beats per second,
A race to see who falls first-
Love verses gravity.
So I make my retreat;
Love comes back to the streets
On these wet-soled eves where
These depressed clouds weep all-over this depressed town.
And if this street, lit by lamp posts at dusks first veil of stars;
Like lined torches of a mausoleum,
Cannot penetrate the blindfold on these tired eyes,
Then was it really worth it?
In this room,
With flower pots bearing purple lilacs;
You hear a newborn at play.
We’re on the receiver,
But I am the receiver.
The string is taut;
The cold metal pressing hard this temple like a gun--
A child’s play-thing should not be so violent.
How can we speak,
Let alone look;
Like erected criminals, shamed and blindfolded at the stake.
Ready.
Aim.
Fire on this broken heart.
In your room it was worth the memories of sound--
The deceit of heavy breathing;
Cacophonously personified by the scratch of a needle,
As our kisses played out our love song.
Out on this street it was worth the memories of sight--
The treachery of sunsets,
Drastically, and oh so dramatically hanged,
Strangled,
By a thread in a victimless crime.
A needle and a thread;
To stitch up the hearts greatest wound?
Not but the small steps of realization:
A needle and a thread;
To stitch up a lining in a casket.
This is a needle and thread;
This is incarnation;
This is fabricated hope;
A real-life Pandora.
Hearts on tethers are meant to be swung at.
The terminal velocity of love;
Or aptly titled ‘The Story Of Our Controlled Decent.’
Anticipation is a luxury when you’re waiting for love.
Love lets you die,
Without first asking for your permission.
by erik snavely
